The Show Goes On
by Wilted Words
Summary: Life throws in an intermission or two. John/Sherlock  light slash .


**A/N:**** Just something that popped into my head. Hope it isn't to awful.**

**The Show Goes On**

He's not one who suffers from the emotional woes that the rest of the population seems prone to indulging in. He does indeed feel emotions; they blaze through his nerve endings, flames licking along each synapse, burning and forceful. No, he feels, he just chooses to not show them, to not let everyone know how much they get under his skin, make him want to breakdown, make him want to laugh till his stomach hurt, because then he wouldn't be him, he wouldn't be The Sherlock Holmes. So yes, he feels, he feels more deeply than any other being he knows, especially for a certain doctor.

Sherlock was fine keeping his mental deficiencies, like his emotions, under check when he was living alone at 221B Baker Street, then John came. John came and broke through, making Sherlock cave, making him smile, laugh, and cry. The detective never knew such emotional freedom before John, even when Sherlock lashed out in pure anger at the doctor, John stayed. Sherlock tried to stem the overflow of repressed feeling bursting from the seams, even trying to push his Dear John away; trying to rid himself of his own personal catalyst. John saw through his anger, and saw the fear that lingered there, knew that emotions were powerful and startling; so he would be the shoulder to lean on, to cry on, to help hold up his friend.

It was during one of these outburst that Sherlock's frayed nerves, running on adrenaline, that Sherlock had grabbed John by the lapels of his jacket and crashed his mouth against John's; his mind sprinting too far ahead of him, so that only the adrenaline and the desperation were the only coherent thoughts. Sherlock couldn't remember initiating the kiss, but when his mind slowed down, and the tension drained from his body, he knew he could never forget kissing john. What started as desperate and angry turned to soft and curious.

Their lips brushing against each other, their tongues dancing together creating a wonderful chorus of music to flow from their lips; John was the first to pull away, staying close enough to still breathe in Sherlock's air. Sherlock let his gaze roam over John's face, slightly flushed, lips swollen, eyes dilated; all this new data brought a smirk to the detective's face. John returned the grin with one of his own.

"They say angry sex is the best," John spoke, his voice a heavy rasp that made Sherlock feel all the heat in his body travel down towards his groin. With a final pointed look from John he turned and went up to his room, leaving Sherlock to muddle through more emotions then he was struggling with before their heated kiss.

* * *

><p>So, on one of those nights where John decided to take a double shift at surgery, because he's John at that's what John does, he helps. Sherlock though didn't share his same commitment to selflessness. Sherlock decided the best course of action was to sit o the couch in the sitting room, wearing loose pajama bottoms and his dressing gown, sporting an impressive pout across his lips; cursing John for being so accommodating. He could feel the heat rise to his face, at first lost to what it could be, but soon realizing the ugly green monster or jealousy rearing its hideous face. Sherlock, new to such emotions, was taken aback and slightly disgusted with the plebian display. The bigger question was what was he really jealous of?<p>

Sherlock heard the door open and close downstairs, anxiously waiting to hear the now familiar footsteps climb the seventeen steps up to the flat. The tread, though slower and heavier, was undoubtedly John, Sherlock could feel his heart palpate past normal range, but shrugged that information to the side, as it was unimportant now that John was home. John walked into the sitting room, shoulders slumped forward, eyes red and puffy from exhaustion, and hair skewed from working twenty-four hours straight. Sherlock stood from the coach , looking to John then around the flat, then back to John, unsure what to do, but feeling lighter now that John was back. Sherlock shook his head, unaccustomed to this feeling of weightlessness, due to just the sight of another being.

John took a seat on the coach, letting his head roll back to rest against the back. Sherlock took in the sight of John's rumpled cardigan and khaki pants, and knew that John had been going non-stop through his shift, that he had been on his feet a majority of the time as well.

"Sherlock, you're staring," John stated, eyes closed and head tilted up towards the ceiling. Sherlock sat down beside the doctor and cocked an eyebrow.

"No I'm not," Sherlock shifted in his seat, "I'm observing." John snorted and shook his head slightly, tilting his head to look over at the detective.

"Whatever you say, you're the genius," John stood from the coach and stretched his arms over his head, stretching out his stiff muscles.

Sherlock couldn't keep his eyes off the small strip of skin exposed when John's cardigan rode up his abdomen. The detective wanted to reach out his hand and run his fingers over the soft skin, feel the heat radiate through his skin, to actually touch John though he may not reciprocate the feeling, may not appreciate the intimate gesture, and that thought alone kept the detective motionless on the couch, eyes following the doctor as he made his way upstairs to shower.

Before retiring to his room for the night, to ponder over his thoughts, Sherlock heard John call him from upstairs, "You could always shower with me, save water you know." Sherlock smirked, how like John to diffuse the tension between them. Sherlock kept his resolve though, determined to work out his feelings for his John.

* * *

><p>The first time Sherlock broke down in front of John was the first time John told him that he loved him. The declaration momentarily short circuiting the connections in his brain and for that split second Sherlock swore his heart stopped beating as well. Sherlock extracted himself from John's warm embrace, wet streams still cascading down his face, and stared at the face of the only man that saw him so open, so vulnerable. John just held out a tissue to him and gave him a small sad smile.<p>

"Don't worry I don't expect you to say it too, I just thought you should know," John made to stand, "You're not alone, I'm always here for you Sherlock." Sherlock grasped the hem of John's jumper and pulled him back down beside him on the couch. John allowed Sherlock to use him as his own personal body pillow, and allowed the detective to curl up in his lap. Sherlock felt John's finger card through his hair, easing the tension out from his muscles. Sherlock knew for sure in that moment that he loved John too, and he was pretty sure John knew that.

John and Sherlock never officially started 'dating' as a normal couple would, but there was nothing really _normal_ about their relationship to begin with. Sherlock would always like to point out to John that normal is all relative, what others may see as strange, Sherlock saw as perfect. They would sit together on the couch and watch crap telly that Sherlock would insult every second, they would go eat together at Angelo's, sitting across from each other, but their eyes never leaving the other's. They would graze hands when they were out at a crime scene, would hold the others hand when they felt no one was looking. John would always whisper the three words that always made Sherlock's heart stop, when returning home from surgery, or after extremely dangerous chases. Sherlock would always give a small smile in return, hoping John understood that he loved him too. The answering grin was enough for Sherlock to know that John's deductive skills weren't so bad after all, even for plain, simple, perfect John.

* * *

><p>After their first kiss, one that was stored away in the back of their minds, they had since to make such an intimate connection, until John had collapsed into a coma. It happened one night when they were on a case, sprinting across rooftops and down dark alleys, and through shady neighborhoods that John was caught unaware. John hadn't seen the third guy who came up behind the doctor and slammed the butt of his gun against John's skull, knocking the doctor unconscious. Sherlock heard the sound of a single gunshot, stopping and twisting his body around, saw the man standing over the doctor, gun pointed directly at his head. Sherlock felt his heart break into tiny pieces.<p>

Sherlock couldn't tell Lestrade or the rest of the Yard why the third gunman was found in a dumpster a few blocks south, dead. No one questioned him after that, John was rushed to surgery, and was now lying in a sterile hospital bed, covered in stark white sheets, and kept alive by IV and a breathing machine. The doctors were the best in Neurology throughout England, but still Sherlock doubted the competence.

"Why aren't you trying more?" He glared at the fifth member of John's team of doctors.

"Mr. Holmes, I assure you that we are doing everything we-" Sherlock stood glaring down his nose at the incompetent man, assigned to save _his_ John's life.

"Obviously you aren't, or John would be showing more signs of improvement _doctor_." The Neurologist took a step back, frightened by the intensity of the anger coming from the usually stoic detective.

"We are doing all we can Mr. Holmes, I promise you that," Sherlock grunted and took his silent vigil by John's bedside once more. The doctor took the hint and fled from the room.

Sherlock refused to leave John's side, declaring he would be there when John woke up, earning sad smiles of pity, that drove the detective mad; he didn't need the nurse's or doctor's pity, he knew that John would make it out of this, he promised to always be there for him.

Three weeks John showed very little sign of improvement, the doctors hope diminishing with each day, but Sherlock never left his side, forgoing all cases (because that would mean leaving John, and that just wasn't an option). Sherlock would turn the television on and turn to one of the shows John loved watching back home, Sherlock though would watch John, hoping to see John crack a smile at one of the ridiculous jokes, that Sherlock found stupid but John loved. When John wouldn't laugh at the absurd humor of the shows, Sherlock would feel a slight burn in the corner of his eye, and a wet sheen covering his irises. His emotions seeping out of his skin like acid, corroding away at his mind and body.

Sherlock didn't know why but on the twenty-third day of John's coma, Sherlock felt the need to tell John the three words that had, up to that point, escaped him. Sherlock had let his fingers run through the light strands of John's hair. Bringing his lips to the shell of John's ear he whispered "I love you," and kissed John chastely on the mouth. Marveling at how different their second kiss was from their first, Sherlock didn't feel the light squeeze against his hand till he pulled back to look into blue eyes, that Sherlock thought he might never see again.

Sherlock felt the burning wetness in the corners of his eyes spill over, John kept his gaze locked with Sherlock's, he brought his hand up to wipe away the tears coming like a waterfall down Sherlock's face. In that moment Sherlock let the damn break away, burying his head in John's good shoulder and weeping, John being John just ran his finger, although shaky, through his dark curls.

The doctor had no words for how miraculous John's emergence back into consciousness was, and that didn't bother Sherlock known, they were just details, John was the masterpiece and that's all Sherlock care about. John was released two months later, on strict orders for bed rest for another month. Sherlock was never far from John's side, always there to bring him food, to change his bed pan, to tuck the blankets more securely around his body.

"Now who's mothering?" John would jest; Sherlock would give him a hard look. John would give a short bark of laughter, making Sherlock stare down at the doctor, amazed at the sound that he was afraid he would never hear again.

"Well, if it bothers you so I can just let you stew in your own waste…literally," was Sherlock's retort.

"My Sherlock, was that a joke?" John would plaster a look of mock surprise, Sherlock would huff in irritation and stalk out of the room, only to return five minutes later, to worried to leave the doctor for too long.

John soon recovered, returning to shifts at surgery and writing his blogs about Sherlock's cases. Though physically absent from the nightly rendezvous of sprinting across rooftops and dashing through London, Sherlock cold always feel John's presence with him. John tried to go out with Sherlock once and was immediately shot down. Stating that John was not yet ready and that he couldn't risk permanently losing John, shocked by such a declaration John stayed back, turning on the telly and laughing along with the annoyingly funny jokes. Sherlock, after 'the incident', became more open about his love for John, whispering the small phrase into John's ear five times a day (at least). Sherlock also became more open to snogging John senseless whenever it struck his fancy, John never held any complaints.

The first time they had sex, Sherlock felt the world fade around him, his brain slow down to a bearable speed, and his sole focus was John and feeling John. It was perfect and Sherlock decided that sex was now going to be part of their daily routine; John once again held no complaints.

John, six months after his return from the hospital, decided that he was ready to return to helping Sherlock at crime scenes, Sherlock of course objected, throwing a magnificent tantrum. John could only watch and try to hold back the laughter that threatened to burst from his mouth.

"John, you're not well enough."

"Sherlock, it's been six months, six months! I'm beyond well enough," John exclaimed, firmly exasperated by the over protective detective. Sherlock stared at John, face a mask of indifference. "Sherlock, I promise I'll be fine, nothing will happen. I told you I'll never leave you." Sherlock's face fell, a mournful look ghosting over his features.

"Fine then," Sherlock cleared his throat and turned his back to John, grabbing his coat from the rack and wrapping his scarf around his neck. "The show goes on."

**FIN**


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